


The Ash Of Memories And Nightmares

by biswholocked



Series: How Slow The Knife Gets Turned [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Asexual Lestrade, Asexual Relationship, Asexual Sherlock, Backstory, Case Fic, Conversations, Declarations Of Love, Deductions, Established Relationship, Established Sherlock Holmes/ Greg Lestrade, F/M, Friendship, Heavy Angst, Kidnapping, M/M, Mind Games, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-07
Updated: 2014-10-16
Packaged: 2018-02-20 05:49:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 13,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2417300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/biswholocked/pseuds/biswholocked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"She's been kidnapped."</i>
</p><p> <i>“By whom?” Sherlock pressed, eyes sharp and calculating, his hair still tousled from the wind outside; even as he spoke the words, though, Lestrade could tell that Sherlock already knew the answer.</i></p><p>  <i>It didn’t change the amount of fear that dripped into Greg’s veins as he whispered the answer. “Moriarty.”</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Seize

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from this [quote](http://consultingamadman.tumblr.com/post/85573920588/you-can-close-your-hands-tight-on-the-embers-of) from a really awesome fan fiction.

Greg watched Sherlock stride down the hall, coat flaring out behind him; when he reached the conference room door, he twisted the handle and flung it open dramatically. “Lestrade,” he said crisply.

“Sherlock. John, Mary,” Greg nodded to the couple who walked in behind Sherlock. “This is Kyle Dawson,” he said, gesturing to where Kyle was standing behind him. “Kyle, this is Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, and his wife Mary.”

“Hello,” Kyle said, halfway lifting a hand in a wave.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at Kyle and moved closer, hands clasped behind his back. “You’re new,” he said, as if trying on the words for size.

Kyle nodded. “Yep. Been working here for…”

“Six months,” Sherlock filled in. “You used to work for a coding company but you quit when you realised it was too dull for you; the code you were writing was incredibly simple, and you were tired of sitting in a cubicle staring at a screen for nine hours a day. You wanted more excitement.” Sherlock tilted his head to the side. “Interesting choice, working for Scotland Yard. But then, I suppose you always dreamed of being a ‘good guy’; you had a male authority figure - one you looked up to - on the force. I’d say father but your’s died when you were young. Uncle, then. He helped out with the bills when your mother was trying to make ends meet.”

Kyle’s jaw dropped a little, and he looked over at Lestrade in confusion and amazement.

“Yeah, he’s always like that,” Greg said, smiling over at Sherlock. “Bit of a genius. But deducing your family history isn’t why Sherlock’s here, is it?”

Kyle shook his head slightly, then looked at Sherlock. “Right then, Mr Holmes-”

“Sherlock.”

“Sherlock,” Kyle amended. “Shall I fill you in?” Without waiting for an answer, Kyle moved over to the table and began talking, making gestures to his maps of London in the process. Lestrade tuned it out, turning to John, who looked a bit tired, but otherwise fine.

“How’d he take it?”

John shrugged slightly. “He was intrigued. The reaction was better than when...well.” John shot him a look, and Lestrade could easily fill in the rest of the sentence. _When he found out that Moriarty had picked you up in a cab._

Greg opened his mouth to reply, but was cut off by Sherlock. “Lestrade, I need to talk to this man, the adult dealer.”

“Koning,” Kyle supplied, and Sherlock glanced at him but didn’t remark on the interruption.

“Why?” Lestrade asked.

“Because a dealer makes it a point to know his customers, especially long term ones. If I can just-”

“Hold up a sec,” Greg said, holding up a finger as his mobile went off. “It’s Molly,” he said, looking down at the screen. “I gotta take this.”

* * *

 

The hardest thing to adjust to when Molly had started working in the morgue at Bart’s was the smell; the room seemed to have a permanent scent of chemicals, latex gloves, and just a hint of something she could only describe as death. In her early days as a morgue attendant, she’d scrubbed everything within an inch of its life, trying to make the tools and surfaces gleam with cleanliness; she would stand in the shower in her small flat and wash her hair twice, three times with the most fragrant shampoo she could find, just to get rid of the persistent smell.

But as time had gone on, the smell had come to mean something very different for her; formaldehyde was not just a harsh chemical that burnt the back of her throat when she got too close, but the combination of elements that preserved the victims’ bodies. Latex gloves were a small barrier between her and the body, one that reminded her to always treat the corpse with respect. And that hint of decay? Well, perhaps it hadn’t gained a positive connotation, but it didn’t bother her as much as it used to.

Now, Molly hummed under her breath as she pulled the needle through Benjamin Jenkins’ skin, then threading it through again and pulling the thick string tight. The stitches going up Jenkins’ chest were even, the white string helping to close the gaping hole that had been cut into his body during the autopsy, slowly obscuring the muscle and bone and leaving behind thin red lines in its wake.

“Ouch,” Molly hissed as the needle slipped and jabbed her in the finger. She could see the blood starting to drip from the small wound, and put the needle down on Jenkins’ chest before stepping away from the table to pull off her glove.

The reddened latex was thrown into a bin, and Molly grabbed a paper towel, trying to remember if she had any plasters in her office. She’d decided on yes, she did, when the sound of shattering glass made her jerk her head up. Across the lab, two burly men had entered; the glass breaking was a beaker that one of them had knocked off a table.

“Ya bleedin’ idiot,” one of them spat, and Molly could feel her heart pick up pace and the flood of adrenaline in her blood as she realised that nothing good was going to come out of the situation. She darted for the rolling cart, where the scalpels and probes were laid out on a piece of cloth, but just as her fingers made contact, an arm around her waist jerked her back.

“I don’t think so, darlin’,” the man said in her ear, and clamped a hand over her mouth before she could even think to scream.

“Let’s go,” the other man said from behind them. “I don’t want to miss the van.”

 _Van?_ The thought of being thrown in the back of a van - _nothing good happens in vans_ , her mind helpfully provided - made Molly frantically surge forward towards the cart. _Please let me reach something_ , she begged, and felt a small flash of victory as she managed to snag a scalpel; already feeling the answering movement from the man who had ahold of her, Molly threw her arm back as hard as she could, blindly searching for a target.

“Fuck!” the man growled from behind her, and as his grip loosened just slightly, Molly wrenched herself forward, trying to break free. She could feel his hands sliding away, feel herself gaining more control over her movements, but as she broke free, the second man was already taking her back.

“No,” Molly heard herself say, voice panicked, but there was nothing she could do to stop the fingers that pressed down on just the right spot on her neck. “No,” she said again, weakly this time, as blood and oxygen stopped reaching her brain.

 _I hope he knows to let go soon_ , she thought dizzily, watching her vision turn into a kaleidoscope of violent sparks, then fade to black. _Or I’ll die instead of passing out._

* * *

 

“Molly,” Lestrade answered. “What’s up? I thought you already completed the autopsy.”

“Hate to disappoint,” a deep voice said from the other end of the line. “But Miss Hooper won’t be doing any autopsies for you in the future.”

“Who is this?” Greg demanded, thoughts racing in an attempt to identify the voice even as his gut filled with cold dread. _Moriarty? No, his voice is higher, more deranged. Who could it be? Dammit, Lestrade- think!_

“Lestrade?” Sherlock asked, the one word holding so many questions. _What’s wrong? Who’s on the other end of that phone call? Are you okay?_ Greg shook his head as the man on the phone spoke again.

“I’m an...associate, shall we say? I’m an associate of Jim Moriarty’s. He asked me to do a favour for him.” The man chuckled. “If I’d known the favour was so attractive, I would have said yes a lot sooner. Feisty, too.”

“Let. Her. Go,” Lestrade bit out.

“I think not,” the man said, amused. “Jim wants to have his fun with her, and so do I. We’ll be in touch, Inspector. Until then, have fun with that little murder of yours,” he finished, and then disconnected.

Greg lowered the mobile from his ear and stared at it, mind being barraged with thoughts. _Why Molly? It isn’t fair, she’s so...innocent, in her own way, and she’s never been anything less than kind to anyone._

“Greg?” John asked quietly from beside him, and Lestrade mentally shook himself. _Focus. You have to get her back; you can’t let Moriarty take her and slowly pull her apart._

“Right,” he said, clearing his throat. “Sherlock, you’re going to have to put off your visit to Koning. Molly’s been kidnapped.”

“By whom?” Sherlock pressed, eyes sharp and calculating, his hair still tousled from the wind outside; even as he spoke the words, though, Lestrade could tell that Sherlock already knew the answer.

It didn’t change the amount of fear that dripped into Greg’s veins as he whispered the answer. “Moriarty.”


	2. Lamp

Molly’s breathing sounded incredibly loud in her ears as she began to regain consciousness. The floor was cold underneath her left side, a hard chill that seeped through her skin and into her bones. _Where am I?_ she thought to herself, then started to remember just what had happened that led to her being somewhere cold, and so dark she couldn’t see her fingers in front of her face.

 _Shite_ , Molly thought, remembering the men that had kidnapped her from the morgue; there was a vague memory of being hauled into an automobile, but past that everything became hazy and a mismatched quilt of stitched-together memories. She tried to scramble up into a sitting position, but her reflexes were slowed, and every movement felt as if she were wading through cement that was beginning to harden. _Drugged, then_ , she decided as she slowly pulled her head up and fought against the sudden rush of vertigo. _It certainly explains why my tongue feels like it was made of sandpaper._

She swallowed, trying to alleviate the dryness in her throat, but only succeeded in making herself cough, chest heaving and lungs rattling in her chest. _Ow_ , she thought as she tried to regain her breath, then berated herself. _Ow? C’mon Molly, be honest with yourself. That’s nothing; you know it’s going to get much worse_. Because that’s how it went, getting kidnapped, and there was no doubt in Molly’s mind that this - being locked in a dark room with no way out - wasn't going to be the worst of it.

Moving as quickly as she could - which really, wasn’t quickly at all, but more at the pace of glacier - Molly tucked her knees close to her chest and wrapped her arms around her legs, closing herself up and providing a small amount of warmth to her shivering body. _You have to stay strong, Molly,_ she told herself. _Just...make it through. Make it through_. She began whispering the words, letting them get lost in the icy air and trying to take comfort in the mantra.

She didn’t know how long she sat there, in the dark; it could have been hours, or less than thirty minutes. Being blind created a sense of detachment from the outside world. But off in the distance, she heard a large boom, one that reminded her of a steel door closing; a few minutes later, a single light switched on, bathing the space in a dim glow from above.

Molly winced back from the light, squinting until her eyes could adjust to the change. When she could open her eyes all the way without them starting to water, she uncurled slightly and looked around. She was in a room with concrete floors, and a high ceiling- it reminded her of a warehouse, and Molly filed that information away for later. It was relatively roomy, and in the far corner from her, there was a large bed; the ornate Victorian headboard and posts seemed incongruous with the rest of the cold, empty room, and for a reason she couldn’t name it’s presence struck a chord of fear deep in her heart. She didn’t move from her position, sitting in the center of the room, waiting for something to happen.

The only door was to her right, across the room from the bed; it was wide, and she guessed that it was probably quite thick, judging from the steel it was made of. As she sat there, the sound of a lock turning came from the other side, and Molly found herself breathing more shallowly as the heavy door swung open with a screech.

The crisp sound of dress shoes clicking on the floor reached her ears, but it was the sight of who walked through the door that made her heart slam painfully in her chest with fear. _No, no, no no_ , her mind wailed, even as he walked further into the room. Finally, he stopped, about two metres away from her, his entire posture screaming _unconcerned_ \- hands in pockets, one foot angled away from his body, hips slightly tilted - until he smiled, and that was when Molly knew for certain. _This is going to break me._

“Hello, doll,” Jim said in that high, happy voice of his, grin still plastered on his face. “So glad you could make it.”

“What do you want?” Molly asked, and cursed herself for the tremor in her words.

Jim (he had never been Moriarty to her, not at first; he was Jim, slightly awkward computer geek) pulled one hand out of his pocket and curled his fingers, inspecting his nails. “Why Molly,” he said, affecting a disappointed tone. “Isn’t that obvious?”

“No,” Molly said, reluctantly letting the word past her lips.

Jim looked at her without raising his head, and curled one end of his mouth up in an arctic smirk. “I’m going to use you. Break you, into the smallest possible pieces; and then, I’m going to make them even smaller, and when I am finished, I am going to dump you on Scotland Yard’s doorstep. You are going to be the knife that stabs into the Detective Inspector’s gut, and, ultimately, the burning arrow that pierces Sherlock’s heart.”

“No,” Molly said again, but the word was strong this time, a brick wall instead of a piece of paper. _That’s it, girl, fight back,_ she told herself, and started to pull herself up off of the ground. Before she made it to her feet, though, something came flying towards her from the periphery of her vision, and a loud smack resonated in her head as shockwaves of pain transmitted from her face to her brain.

Stumbling, Molly fell backward, landing on her back, and looking up at Jim, who was now standing over her, hand still raised from the smack. Any trace of the friendly IT worker Molly had first known had vanished, leaving in its wake an ugly twist to his lips and a black rage in his eyes.

“Boss?” a voice asked from the doorway, and another set of footsteps walked into the room; Molly tore her eyes away from Jim to see who it was, but the tall, muscular, blonde-haired man didn’t look familiar.

“Seb,” Jim said, not looking away from where Molly was splayed out before him. “What is it?”

“Just wondered if you wanted to send the message now,” Seb said, leering down at her.

Jim’s mouth twitched upwards in a brief smile. “Yes,” he answered, words smoky and full of danger. “I think it’s time.”

* * *

“It’s not a question of whether or not Miss Hooper is a friend of yours or not, Lestrade- you don’t work missing persons. That’s not your division.”

“This is ridiculous!” Sherlock snapped from behind where Greg was sitting in front of the Chief Superintendent’s desk. “Just let him on the case! He’s clearly the best of a bad batch, and you trying to prove your authority by shutting him out doesn’t bode well for my opinion on your intelligence; nor is it doing any good. Molly Hooper isn’t going to be alive long enough to _stay_ a missing persons case if you don’t let Lestrade run the investigation.”

York rose a hand and pointed his finger at Sherlock. “And let me remind you, Mr Holmes, that I don’t have to let you on _any_ case; technically, you shouldn’t even be here during this discussion. So if you would kindly just sit. Down.”

Sherlock growled low in his throat and opened his mouth to reply, but was cut off by a sergeant opening the door. “Sir?”

“What is it now, Blakely?” York sighed.

“A Mr Holmes to see you, sir,” Blakely said quickly, and ducked back out before the Chief Superintendent could say anything.

Greg turned in his chair, gaze flitting over to Sherlock. _He looks….smug_ , Lestrade thought, and the mystery as to why was solved when Mycroft walked in, looking every bit the important bureaucrat.

“Mr York,” Mycroft greeted smoothly. “I believe you and I have some issues to discuss?”

“Do we?” York challenged; Mycroft simply raised an eyebrow in reply, then turned to Sherlock.

“If you don’t mind, brother mine, I think you and the Inspector should leave now.”

Sherlock nodded, and gestured to Lestrade, who only spared a quick glance at York before standing and making his way from the office. The door clattered shut behind them, and Greg turned to Sherlock.

“You set that up, didn’t you?”

Sherlock gave him a knowing look. “Are you saying you’re not glad about it? You’ll be able to work the case now.”

“Berk,” Greg said affectionately, and took hold of Sherlock’s hand, slotting his fingers in between the other man’s; the point of contact felt like a weight holding him down to Earth instead of flying away with anxiety. “Thank you,” he continued, more serious and holding Sherlock’s eyes with his own.

Sherlock nodded in response, and they stood there, letting the sounds of the police department wash over them, until Lestrade’s mobile vibrated in his pocket.

Greg looked at his coat, the back up at Sherlock, whose gaze had turned sharp with focus, before reaching into his pocket and pulling the phone out.

 _One new media message_ , the screen read, and Greg clicked it open even as his stomach filled with trepidation.

It was a picture of Molly, spread out upon the ground; she was staring up at the camera, and Greg’s stomach clenched when he saw the fear that shone in them. A red mark stood out on her cheek, and as Lestrade looked closer he could see that it was a handprint, the skin still red from being struck. Below the picture, a text message was displayed:  _Our little Moll is having so much fun. Are you? If not, don’t worry. We’re just getting started._

“Oh God,” Greg whispered brokenly, and wrenched open the door to the Chief Superintendent’s office. “Please,” he said. “You have to let me on the case. He’s…” he swallowed past the lump of terror in his throat, tried to push away the myriad of thoughts ( _You’ve failed her, Lestrade; I have to find her; dammit she doesn’t deserve this_ ) that crowded his head. “Moriarty’s made contact.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully I'm doing alright at this. I've never really written kidnapping things before. Which reminds me- on the note of Molly's kidnapping: I'm expecting this to be _way_ more...descriptive than "If You Press Me" ever was. So don't be too surprised if the rating goes up to mature or explicit. There may also be some warnings.  
>  Thoughts on this chapter? (I'm especially wondering about Molly's characterization. Any issues?)


	3. Mobile Phone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just so you know: this chapter features non-linear story telling; most of this chapter is set years before this story.

“Could you stop squabbling and listen to me?” Lestrade said into the phone, trying and failing to find his well of patience. “Donovan, please. Just check out the damn brother, okay?”

“I don’t understand why you take him at his word so much, Guv,” Donovan was arguing, and Greg pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers.

“Because he’s _right_ , Donovan. Are you purposefully being obtuse, or what?” he snapped as he turned the corner, winding through the halls of St Bart’s. “Never mind, don’t answer that. Go talk to the brother, then get back to me.” Lestrade hung up and shoved the phone into his pocket with a sigh, looking around him. _Bloody brilliant,_ he mentally groaned. _I have no idea where I am in this damn place_. He was supposed to be coming to Bart’s to find the morgue, and ask the coroner to run some additional tests (while conveniently leaving out the fact that Sherlock was the one who was really requesting - demanding - them). Greg would’ve just called, but he didn’t have the number on hand, so he’d driven down to the hospital to ask them in person.

And now he’d gotten turned around somewhere, and why did all hospital corridors have to look the same, with their bloody white walls and bright light? Making a sound of frustration and hopelessness in the back of his throat, Lestrade closed his eyes and propped his back up against the wall of the hallway, then slowly slid down until he was sitting on the floor, pressed against the wall with his knees pulled up. _What am I even doing here? Lord knows how little of a difference the police make in the grand scheme of things; hell, I have a desk full of cold cases to prove how useless I am. My hair’s going grey, my knees ache sometimes, and I can’t even find the fucking morgue in Bart’s._

“Um...are you okay?” a soft voice asked, and Lestrade opened his eyes to see a woman standing a few steps away from him. She was wearing a lab coat over some kind of flowery blouse and jeans, with her brown hair pulled up in a ponytail; she was clutching a clipboard to her chest, but it didn’t seem like a gesture that indicated fear. _More like worry_ , Greg thought, though he wasn’t sure how he knew.

In response to the lady’s question, Lestrade smiled bitterly. “I’m questioning my existence, so I’m not really sure.”

“Oh,” she said, seeming to flounder in uncertainty before she walked over to him and sat down next to him, copying Greg’s position. “Well, I can’t really say that I know you all that well, but you seem like a nice enough bloke to me.”

Greg turned his head so that he could look at the woman as he replied. “It’s not about being nice,” he admitted. “I just...don’t know if I’m making a difference. And God,” he tried to force a laugh, “I don’t even know why I’m telling you this. Don’t even know your name.”

“Molly,” she said quietly. “Molly Hooper.”

“Greg Lestrade.”

Molly smiled softly. “Pleased to make your acquaintance. And if...if you don’t mind me saying so, I think everyone makes a difference.”

“Doesn’t feel like it, most days.”

“Well, I think about it like this,” Molly said sincerely. “There are a lot of people in the world, right? Almost six billion. And it’s easy, to let yourself focus on all the bad things that are happening to people, all that brilliance and compassion and creativity that’s being snuffed out everyday. But if you do that for too long...you start to doubt yourself, wonder if you can ever do any good at all when you’re surrounded by such horrible, horrible things, and that’s...that’s no way to live. So I try to think more about the little things, like feeding the stray cat that comes round to my flat, or buying Mike coffee on Friday mornings as a way to celebrate the weekend. I take five minutes to just sit and watch the raindrops drip down the window. And it’s not perfect but,” she shrugged a bit. “It helps.”

Greg smiled, pleasantly surprised by this somewhat mousy but extraordinarily kind woman who had decided to stop and ask a strange man in the hall if he was okay. “Molly, I think you may be one of the most friendly people I’ve met in ages.”

A light flush spread over Molly’s cheeks at that, and she looked away. “Thank you, Greg. Anyway,” she said, clearing her throat slightly. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“Yeah, actually. Can you point me in the direction of the morgue?”

Molly giggled a little and stood up. “I should hope so, considering I work there.”

Lestrade pushed himself up onto his feet. “Wait. Are you the coroner?”

Molly shook her head. “No, just the morgue attendant, I’m afraid. Still going to school for my degree. C’mon, it’s this way.” She started walking down the hallway, and Greg hurried to catch up. “If I may ask, what are you going to the morgue for? Are you...family?”

“What? Oh, no,” Lestrade said. “I’m a copper; was hoping to ask the medical examiner if they could run some more tests.”

Molly nodded, and hesitated before she spoke again. “If you like, I could...run the tests for you? Mike is a pretty lenient boss; I think he’s just waiting for the day I graduate so that he can let me run the morgue officially.”

“Yeah, that’d be….good,” Greg said thankfully; they were coming up on a set of double doors, and Molly stopped just in front of them.

“Well,” she said, gesturing slightly. “Here we are. It’ll take me a while to run the tests- which ones were you wanting, again?”

“Oh,” Lestrade said, and dug out the piece of paper that Sherlock had scribbled on (“Don’t muck it up, Lestrade,” he’d said sharply. “Just give them this.”) and handed it to Molly. “Whatever’s on there.”

Molly looked down at the paper, then back at him. “You...didn’t write this, did you?”

Greg grinned, a bit sheepishly. “No. Sherlock Holmes did. He’s a consultant for the Yard.”

Molly’s laugh was a bright, airy thing. “Believe me, Greg; _everyone_ knows who Sherlock is. It’s okay,” she said, catching the look on Lestrade’s face and anticipating the speech that was about to come. “I don’t mind. Really,” she said earnestly, and Greg got the feeling that maybe Molly was a bit smitten.

“Well,” he said. “Thank you, really. For. Y’know.”

“Yeah,” Molly agreed. “Not a problem. See you around, Greg.”

Lestrade turned to walk away, but snapped his fingers in realisation. “Wait,” he said to Molly, who was just pushing open the door to the morgue. “Here, take this- it’s my card. So you can call me when you’re finished.”

Molly took the card with another smile. “Cheers.”

“Cheers,” Greg repeated, and gave Molly a short nod before starting back down the hall.

* * *

 

John watched Lestrade collapse into one of the chairs positioned around the table in the conference room, and felt his heart twist in sympathy and worry. Greg looked ill, and John could clearly see the slight shudder on each exhale when Lestrade propped his elbows up on the table and pressed his head into his hands. It had been five hours since they’d first found out about Molly, and Greg looked like he’d lost one of his best friends.

 _And really, I guess he has_ , John thought, even as he watched Sherlock stare at the photo that was being displayed on the screen. Molly and Lestrade had known each other for years, and they’d developed a strong friendship throughout that time. _It must be hell, for him, knowing she’s in danger but not sure if he can get her back_.

Sherlock was muttering under his breath now, and started pacing around the table. On his way back around, he brushed his hand over Lestrade’s shoulder, but stopped when Greg’s fingers came up to hold it in place. “It’s a warehouse, of some kind,” Sherlock said as he squeezed Lestrade’s shoulder. “Built in the eighties, part of a larger complex that was split up into small rooms.”

“Is there any other way of narrowing it down?”

Sherlock hesitated. “Not unless I can see more of the space she’s in,” he said finally. “Kyle’s running the phone number now, though; we may get something from that.”

Greg rubbed a hand over his face then nodded wearily. “Right,” he said, and John could see the mask sliding back on, the professionalism crawl back into Greg’s voice and posture. “We can also start compiling a list of warehouses that fit that description, yeah? How’s Mary doing on her end?” he asked, directing the question to John.

“She’s drawing up an index of any of her past...colleagues, that may have gotten involved with Moriarty,” John said. “I can go see how that’s coming, if you want an update.”

“Yes, please,” Lestrade said, and John nodded before leaving; as he closed the door behind him, though, he caught a glance of Greg’s unguarded expression. _God I hope we get her back safe; if we don’t, I’m afraid the guilt might kill him._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really wanted to give some background to Molly and Lestrade's friendship, so that's where this chapter came from; there'll probably be some more like it scattered about throughout the piece.  
> Thoughts on this chapter? (I'm kind of flying blind when it comes to this story...I know what I want to have happen, but I'm kind of winging it with how those things happen. Hopefully it's been working so far.)


	4. Tower

“Tell me Molly, did you ever imagine you would be part of such a fascinating chess game?” Seb asked conversationally as he ran a fingertip up and down the blade of his knife. After Jim had snapped a picture on his mobile phone, he’d left, his staccato footsteps fading from the room; Seb had grinned down at her before snagging onto her forearm and hauling her over the the bed, where he’d propped her against the headboard and sat down next to her. He’d been silent for hours, just flicking his pocketknife open and closed; the sound had gotten louder and louder in Molly’s head as her nerves became more tattered with fear and exhaustion. When the man had spoken, she visibly flinched.

“Wh-” Molly swallowed nervously, then tried again. “What do you mean?” _Why hasn’t he done anything? This waiting is terrifying._

“When I first met Jim, I’d been discharged from MI6 because they thought I was becoming unhinged; I came back to London and I was so...I could _feel_ the violence boiling inside of me, a burning desire to hurt people. And one day, I bumped into this bloke coming out of a coffee shop, and I just snapped. I slammed him into the wall, was snarling in his face, and do you know what he did? He smiled, and said ‘I may have some work for you’.” He looked over at Molly, and his eyes had the same maniacal light as Jim’s did, his smile the same dark creature lurking behind it. “He’s so...smart, and I can’t wait until we finally get to see Sherlock Holmes as a broken corpse.”

“That’s not going to happen,” Molly denied tremulously. “It’s not.”

“Yes, it is,” Seb said dangerously. “And you’re going to be the catalyst.”

“How am I supposed to be that when you haven’t _done_ anything to me?” Molly demanded, instantly cursing herself as the words left her mouth. _What are you on, Molly Hooper? Do you want to anger the bloody madman?_

But, to her surprise (and fear) Seb didn’t get angry; he didn’t threaten her with the knife, or crush her throat under his hand. Instead, he laughed, his unbalanced giggle filling the room. “Oh, Molly. Don’t worry. We’ll get there soon enough.”

* * *

 

Molly screamed into the gag, trying to twist away from the burning pain that seared into her back, thrashing against the bed; the mattress was scratchy under her shirtless torso. Jim had come back a little while after Seb had made his promise, casually holding a ream of rope in one hand.

“Hello, Molly,” he’d greeted cheerfully, and Molly had had to close her eyes as her blouse was cut off of her and her arms and legs were tied to the bedposts. Her breathing had turned harsh in her ears, and at the first cold press of the blade to her back had caused her to shiver.

Now, Seb made a sound of enjoyment, and _Oh god Oh god Oh god please make it stop_ she thought, whimpering as the knife dug further into her skin.

“Seb did tell you we’d get to the pain soon, didn’t he, doll?” Jim asked from where he was standing by the side of the bed, towering over her and watching with clear interest. “I hope you’re not disappointed. Hmm….” Jim tilted his head to the side a bit. “Seb, go a bit deeper on that one,” he pointed. “It looks a bit shallow.”

 _No_ , Molly heaved, but couldn’t stop the knife sliding into her flesh, pulling through the layers of skin and ripping through muscle, and she couldn’t stop the distant corner of her mind - the doctor, the medical examiner, the biology student - that catalogued every tear. _Oh, that one got deep; don’t know what they’re carving back there but it will leave some scars, most likely to be dead cells, you won’t be able to feel anything there anymore. But at least you won’t bleed out from it- no major arteries nearby._ “Please,” she tried to beg, but couldn’t get the word out from around the piece of her blouse stuffed into her mouth; she could feel bile rising in her throat and retched slightly, trying not to vomit because God that would make it even worse.

“Perfect,” Jim said with a twisted grin. “Now, to show the dear Detective Inspector just what he’s missing out on.”

* * *

 

Greg’s hand shook as he picked up his mobile; he could feel his stomach clench, and Sherlock’s presence beside him was the only thing that stopped him from running away, tearing through London and busting down every warehouse door until he found Molly.

“Lestrade,” Sherlock prodded quietly, and Greg released a long breath before he opened the message.

 _Oh my God_. Greg looked away as quickly as he could, but it was too late; the image of Molly, tied down to the bed, her back cut up and bleeding with a message that ripped a hole into his chest (“ISNT SHE LOVELY?”) was already burned into the back of his brain. _No no no_ he thought, and somehow managed to stay on his feet as he threw himself out of the chair and stumbled down the hall into the gents, feeling lightheaded and stomach rebelling against the cup of coffee he’d had earlier.

 _I’m so sorry sorry sorry_ his mind repeated as the door slammed shut behind him, and his fumbling fingers just managed to flick the lock before he collapsed in front of the toilet and threw up. He coughed at the bitterness that filled his mouth, and held onto the cool porcelain with all of the strength he had, watching his knuckles turn white with the effort. _Jesus Molly it should be me instead, I’m so sorry_ he thought with a sob, and choked slightly on a dry heave, breath rattling through his body.

“Lestrade,” Sherlock said from the other side of the door. “Lestrade, are you okay?”

 _No. I’ve let her down and God knows what else she’s going through and I’m completely useless here Sherlock_ , Greg replied in his head, but couldn’t say anything out loud as tears clogged his throat and pricked at his eyes.

Sherlock didn’t ask him again, but Lestrade vaguely noticed that the sounds of a lock being picked were echoing slightly into the loo, until the door swung open to reveal Sherlock kneeling on the floor. He stood silently, and tucked the lockpicks into his suit pocket as he stepped into the loo. He pushed the door closed behind him and relocked it, then walked over to Greg, uncertainty slowing his steps. When he got to where Greg was clinging to the toilet, he reached down and gently pried Lestrade’s fingers from the rim; as his focal point was lost, Greg wobbled backwards, and Sherlock swiftly bent down to catch Lestrade before he toppled over. Holding him by one hand and the space between his arm and chest, Sherlock propped Lestrade up against the tiled wall of the bathroom, then sat down next to him, just letting their shoulders touch and their fingers loosely intertwine. The silence sat heavily in the air as Greg let the tears fall unchecked down his cheeks.

“Will they scar?” Greg asked after a long time. His voice was gravelly with pain.

“Yes,” Sherlock replied, sounding as if the word was pulled from his mouth unwillingly. At his answer, Lestrade made a sound that got stuck on the way out, and let his head fall on Sherlock’s shoulder; silent sobs shook his frame, and at a loss for what to do, Sherlock turned his head slightly to brush his lips over Lestrade’s hair.

“I’m sorry,” he said simply, and it was the truth. Sherlock knew that Molly and Lestrade were close, and he knew precisely why Moriarty had chosen to take her; that didn’t make it any easier to watch Lestrade break down, blame himself for not being good enough to find her.

“I just…” Greg whispered, and trembled. “I wish it was me.”

And that...that was the problem, wasn’t it? Lestrade was the kind of man who would always, always wish harm on himself to save another, and knowing that there wasn’t a way for him to take Molly’s place made it worse, made him completely...crumble.

 _It would be even worse, if it was you. It’s already hard enough, watching you have to deal with this_. “Kyle found out where the phone was bought,” Sherlock said out loud. “A small electronics shop in Soho. He’s running through surveillance tapes right now. I’ve also got John tracking down antique dealers; the bed in the photograph was of a very distinct variety. We’ll find her, Lestrade.”

“I hope so. God, I hope so,” Greg said fervently.

Sherlock pressed his forehead against the side of Lestrade’s scalp, trying to convey as much certainty as possible when he repeated himself. “We’ll find her,” he whispered fiercely, squeezing his eyes shut at the rush of protectiveness he felt towards Lestrade. “I swear.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God super nervous about this one. Apologies if it isn't very good. I was super stressed today.


	5. Pebble

The surf was gently washing in, bubbly foam from the waves reaching just far enough up on the sand to lap at Molly’s feet as she bent down, searching through the various rocks and shells on the shore. The water was cool, and the wind gently teased Molly’s hair as she plucked something up from the sand and showed it off with an air of triumph.

“Da, look!” Molly held up the colourful pebble with a bright grin, shoving it upwards so that her father could see.

Her father’s hair was standing upwards from the breeze, and his eyes squinted against the sun as Da gently took the pebble from her and turned it in his rough, calloused hands. “A very nice find,” he agreed with a small smile. “Are you going to take it home with you?”

“Yeah,” Molly said excitedly, and eagerly reached out to grasp her father’s hand, tugging him along as she ran up the beach to put the pebble near their things. Da laughed as they traipsed through the sand, allowing himself to be pulled along.

Later, Molly and her father were in the car, driving back to their small town as the sun started to sink below the horizon. The light bathed the surrounding hills in a pretty orange light that captivated Molly until her eyes started to close against her will; she fought to keep them open as Da confidently navigated their old car down the road.

“Da?” she asked quietly, and he looked over at her with a questioning expression.

“Yeah Molls?”

“Is everything okay?”

“Well sure,” her father said with a little chuckle. “Why do you ask?”

“Because,” Molly yawned, “sometimes you look sad. And your face gets all...droopy.”

“Everything’s fine, Molls,” Da promised.

“M’kay,” Molly murmured, and let her head fall against the window as she drifted off, distantly feeling fingers comb through her hair.

* * *

 

When Molly woke up, the pale light of early morning was just starting to come in through her window. She stretched, relishing the slight burn in her muscles as she arched her back and yawned. Blinking, she rubbed the sleep from her eyes and slid out of bed, padding down the hall into the kitchen.

Da was sitting at the table, head cradled in his hands; his shoulders were shaking, and Molly frowned as she came closer.

“Da?”

Her father looked up, and tried to smile through the tears that streaked his cheeks. “Molls,” he said roughly. “What’re you doing up so early, love?”

Molly shrugged, still feeling a little bit confused. “I just woke up. I was gonna make tea.” She walked over to where her father was sitting and stood by his shoulder. “Why are you crying, Da?”

“Oh Molls,” he said, and Molly had never heard her Da sound so _sad_ as he did then; he turned in his chair and wrapped his arms around her, enveloping her into a large, warm hug and pressing his nose into Molly’s hair.

Molly threw her arms around Da’s neck and held him closer, squeezing her eyes shut tight. She didn’t know why this was happening, but something inside her just... _knew_ , knew that her father needed this and that she probably needed it too.

After a long moment, Da finally pulled back, a wavering smile on his face as he brushed his fingers through Molly’s hair, tucking it behind her ear.

“Let’s get you some tea, then, hmm?” he said, and rose from his chair, moving towards the stove.

* * *

 

The wind had a bite to it, winding its way under Molly’s scarf and into her clothing, and it caused a shiver to crawl across her skin. “Hey Da,” she whispered, trying to find some indication of her father in the cemetery, some spark of his personality in the granite headstone.

“I-” she stopped, and wiped a tear away before it froze on her cheek. “I got accepted into King’s College. It’s really happening, Da.” Molly let out a choked laugh. “I’m really going to become a doctor. Isn’t that mad?” She paused for a moment and looked out across the small, empty cemetery, and took a deep breath before looking back down. “I hope...I hope you’re happy, wherever you are. I miss you.” She let out her breath on a shaky exhale. “I really, _really_ miss you. And sometimes, God sometimes I’m just so mad at you for not being here,” she admitted. “But I know it wasn’t your fault- can’t exactly help cancer. Anyway. I haven’t forgotten you, or anything; I’ve still got that pebble from the beach that day. That was a good day- one of the best, and the last before, well.” Molly rocked on her feet a bit and sniffled; her nose was numb with cold. “Love you, Da,” she finished, and brushed a hand over the gravestone before making her way out of the cemetery, listening to the crunch of dying grass underneath her feet.

* * *

 

Molly coughed and shivered, trying to pull her limbs closer to her body and wincing when they were stopped by the ropes, rubbing against raw skin.

They - Jim and Seb - had left after ripping up her back and pulling the gag out of her mouth, already discussing something else as Molly had laid there, shaking from the pain. Soon after the door slammed shut behind them, the light had flicked off, and Molly’s heart rate had jumped at the sudden encroachment of the dark. She’d tried to even out her breathing, focus on the expansion and collapse of her chest instead of the burn from the cuts or the warm, sticky feeling of blood clotting over. She shivered again, and tried to wiggle her fingers and toes, but she couldn’t feel them. _Beginning stages of hypothermia_ , she guessed, though it wasn’t much of a surprise; the room had gotten more and more cold as time had gone on, and being unable to curl in on herself had caused her to lose her body heat. When the muscles in her back contorted with another shudder, Molly hissed at the pain.

 _That’s going to be a bitch while it’s healing_ , Molly thought, _If I stay alive long enough to let it heal_. At that second thought, Molly chided herself. _Don’t think like that. You’ll be alright. Just wait- Sherlock and Greg will pull some amazing feat of detective work, and they’ll come blasting in here any moment. You’ll be embarrassed about them seeing you shirtless, but everything will be okay and the bad guys will get defeated._

As she drifted off, world going hazy with fatigue, she ardently hoped that was true.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts?


	6. Picture

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's a bit short. Sorry about that- I had a ton of history reading to do, and I had a bad case of writer's block for most of today.

“I’ve got it!”

Greg jerked awake at the sound of Kyle’s voice, nearly losing balance in his chair until Sherlock gripped onto his arm to keep him upright. “What?” he demanded, and coughed at the way the word chafed at the back of his throat.

Sherlock slid a cup of tea closer to Lestrade as Kyle started talking again, running a hand through his already-mussed hair. “Mary- Mrs Watson - her list of names, she drew it up for me, and….” Kyle made a small whistling noise. “Crazy people, that lot. Anyway, half of them didn’t even exist, according to every database known to man-” Kyle paused, and shot a look over to Sherlock and Lestrade that said he knew exactly what those people were, but wasn’t going to say anything. “-but that meant, fortunately, that I still had the other half of the list to check out. I compiled a program that crosschecked those faces from Mary’s list and the good face shots I could get from the electronics store.”

“What did you find?” Sherlock’s voice was level, calm, hiding the hope that spiked in his chest as he spoke the words that had gotten stuck in Greg’s throat.

Kyle’s eyes lit up. “I found Sebastian Moran,” he said, and slid a folder across the table to Sherlock and Lestrade, tapping his fingers against the tabletop.

Greg reached out to the folder, hand shaking as he flipped it open; inside, there were two pictures of the same man, one that was an ID photo and the other a shot from the surveillance tape. The photo was of a man, with a square jaw line and hard blue eyes. His blonde hair was just slightly longer than a buzz cut; in the photo from the electronics store, he was wearing a plain black t-shirt and jeans, a pair of sunglasses covering his eyes.

 _This is really happening. We’re getting somewhere_. “Did you show this to Mary?” he asked Kyle.

“Yeah,” he said, nodding. “She confirmed it was him. Did some more digging on him after that, while she and John went out looking for the dealer on that bed. Sebastian Moran worked for various agencies starting with Her Majesty’s Army from the age of eighteen, and then he bounced around for about ten years between MI6, the CIA, and even a couple stints with the FBI. He was-”

“Discharged,” Mary broke in from behind Kyle as she and John came walking in. She looked over at Lestrade. “They thought he was a madman; he’d gone against quite a few operation procedures in his later years, and MI6 decided to cut their losses. Nobody would hire him after that, and everyone assumed he just went underground. There were whispers, that he was working for someone but…” Mary trailed off and shrugged. “I lost touch with the rumors after I moved to London.”

John brushed his fingers over Mary’s, then held up the piece of paper in his other hand. “Got a bit more to be going off of,” he said. “We went through almost every antique store in London, but we finally found an old guy who remembered the bed; said that he’d seen it for auction a couple months ago at Criterion Riverside Auctions. Thank the Lord, the clerk there recognised us- he let us have a look at the sales records. It was bought in October by the vic from the hemlock case- Benjamin Jenkins.”

Sherlock jumped up from his chair and started pacing, hands flying through the air as he sorted through the information. “So Jenkins was employed by his dealer Koning; after Koning went to jail, Jenkins was brought a bit closer into Moriarty’s circle to fill the hole there- he probably took over Koning’s drug operation. Drugs make money; Jenkins decided to splurge what wasn’t his, probably. Who’s going to notice a couple thousand quid in an operation that’s making millions? He spent it at the Criterion on that bed.”

Lestrade was catching up. “Moriarty finds out, and has Jenkins killed and dumped. He takes the bed, as what? A trophy?”

Sherlock nodded. “He killed the man with hemlock- that’s not a kind death. And the bed is an antique. So he puts it his hideaway place, and uses it to hold Molly while he has her in captivity.” Sherlock whirled around and pointed at Kyle. “Pull up the picture of Molly again- the second one.”  
Kyle scrambled to do as Sherlock said, projecting the picture up on the screen. Sherlock moved to stand in front of it, and Greg averted his eyes slightly, looking at the picture of Moran as he took a sip of the tea.

“Yes,” Sherlock said after a moment, and spun around to face them. “Yes, yes, yes. I know where she is.”

Lestrade looked up sharply. “Where?”

“Chisenhale Works,” Sherlock said, eyes wide. “It’s the only one that works. Built much earlier than I thought, but renovated in the eighties- that’s why the walls and floors are different architecture styles. Was a dance studio back then, they’d have sectioned off the building into rooms, but big enough spaces to hold dance classes in. Some of the buildings are used today, but there are a couple of warehouses that are still derelict. It would be simple for someone like Moriarty to take over one and turn it into a base.”

“So what do we do now?” Mary asked, and Greg looked over at her.

“We go and rescue Molly.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Other than the length, any thoughts on this chapter?  
> (I know there hasn't been a lot of the actual relationship between Sherlock and Lestrade in this piece. I apologise. I've mostly been focusing on Molly's story, but I promise I'll get there at some point. Probably after Molly is safe. I do have a bit of justification for it though- I think Sherlock would be concerned about Lestrade, but I also think he'd have to find some way to make sure his emotions don't overwhelm him. Anyway. Incredibly long parenthetical statement finished now.)


	7. Escape

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longer chapter today, to make up for yesterday's short one.

Greg and Sherlock’s eyes met each other from across the van, locking together over where Kyle was squinting at the mobile computer center’s screen. The tinted windows let in only the barest amount of light from the street lamps, but it was still enough to draw comfort from Sherlock’s gaze.

“Jay, Em,” Kyle said into his comm. “You in position?”

John and Mary’s affirmatives crackled slightly in Greg’s own earpiece, and Kyle looked up at where Sherlock and Lestrade were sitting, already outfitted in vests and holstered guns.

“That’s the last of them,” Kyle said. “Anytime you’re ready.”

 _Are you set to go?_ Sherlock asked him silently, and Lestrade nodded shortly.

 _Yes_. Sherlock leaned over and unlatched one of the double doors in the back of the van, then slid out, Greg following close behind.

It was early morning, the sky a dark grey from cloud cover; the faint scent of rain still lingered in the air, and Greg took a deep breath of it to settle his nerves as he stared up at the Chisenhale Works. The building had every indication of abandonment; vegetation was slowly crawling up the old brick walls, partially crumbling in some areas. The windows were made of many small panels of glass, most of them broken, jagged pieces still in their frames that gaped like teeth. Anyone passing by would assume it was another derelict building, probably used as some kind of homeless stakeout; but Greg could feel it- somewhere deep in his bones - that this building was different. _This is where she is._

Lestrade followed Sherlock’s dark form across the road and up to one of the side doors of the warehouse; at a nod from Sherlock, Greg kicked in the crumbling wood and moved inside, instinctually reaching for his gun as they stepped inside.

Greg blinked rapidly at the loss of light, willing his eyes to adjust to the dark as quickly as possible. He could still feel Sherlock’s presence behind him, and Lestrade blindly reached out with his free hand until Sherlock’s fingers brushed against his. Sherlock latched on for a short moment, quickly squeezing Greg’s fingers in a gesture of reassurance before letting them go. When he could make out the general scope of the room they were in, Lestrade moved forward, adjusting his grip on his gun as he slowly moved forward.

They moved through the ground floor cautiously, clearing each room before moving on to the next one; there were a few pieces of furniture in some of them, but on the whole the warehouse was empty and ominous. Lestrade’s heart was pounding from the influx of adrenaline, and something inside him was coiled tight in anticipation. The set of stairs to the first storey was tucked away in the corner, and Greg didn’t hesitate before testing their strength, gradually making his way up and listening to the sound of Sherlock behind him.

At the top of the stairs, there was a short corridor before a large steel door that looked conspicuously out of place in the warehouse where all the doors- or the remnants of them - were made of wood. Moving faster now, Lestrade went down the hall and stopped at the door, which was slightly open; light blazed from the crack, and Greg held his breath as he looked inside.

It was the room from the pictures, he could tell right away. The dimensions were the same, but even more significant was the bed in the far corner, where Lestrade could see Molly straining against the ropes that bound her; standing beside the bed was Moriarty, one finger pressed to his lips in thoughtfulness.

“Now the question is,” Moriarty said in an intimate tone that Lestrade just barely heard. “Do I want to shoot you in the head, or somewhere that will make you bleed out?” Moriarty lifted the gun that he was holding in his other hand, as if judging which option it was best suited for.

Greg didn’t think, didn’t look back to Sherlock for confirmation before he slammed his shoulder into the door, forcing it open and running into the room, bringing his gun up in a movement that felt as natural as breathing (he’d spent hours at the practice range, after Baskerville, determined to never be so useless again) and leveling at the same height as Moriarty’s head.

“Neither,” Lestrade growled, and the man looked over at them, expression full of amusement.

“Hello Inspector, Sherlock. So lovely to see you both again.”

Sherlock didn’t say anything in reply, but Lestrade growled out the one thing he knew he had to do (procedure, ingrained in him since the Academy). “Step away and put the gun down. This is your one chance.”

Moriarty laughed darkly, the sound filling the room. “Oh really? And what happens if I don’t? It’s not as if you would dare to try and ki-”

The crack of the gunshot left Lestrade’s ears ringing - _it sounds so much quieter when you’re wearing earmuffs_ \- but as Moriarty crumpled to the ground mid-sentence, Greg decided that it didn’t matter. He was still holding his gun up, breathing heavily and desperately thinking _Is that it? Please tell me it’s over_. He and couldn’t make himself take his eyes off of Moriarty’s body and the pool of blood and brain tissue that was spreading outwards, unsure if the man would pull himself back up with that detached, manic smile of his and laugh at the thought of dying for good. It was only the sight of Sherlock, moving past Lestrade and stepping over Moriarty's corpse on his way to Molly, that convinced Greg that he could lower his gun and put it back into its holster before following Sherlock. “We got her,” he said into his comm as he walked over to the bed.

Lestrade undid the ropes around Molly’s wrists, fingers stuttering slightly as they picked at the knots; when they were untied and when Sherlock had finished with the ones binding her ankles, Greg helped Molly sit up on the bed.

“Hey Molls,” he said roughly, throat clogging at the sight of the tear tracks that streaked down Molly’s cheeks.

“Greg,” she smiled tremulously, and Lestrade let out a strangled sound and brushed a hand across her face, pushing her hair back behind her ear.

“Good to see you again,” Greg said, but Molly’s response was cut off by Sherlock, who stiffened suddenly.

“Molly,” he said, and Lestrade was instantly on edge again at the urgency in the word. “Where is Sebastian Moran?”

* * *

 

Mary hadn’t held a gun since the night she had shot Sherlock; feeling the weight of metal and plastic in her hands again as she lifted the bag that held her rifle and scope made her throat go dry at the memory; John must have sensed something in the stiffness of her body, because he put an encouraging hand on her shoulder.

“You okay?”

Mary looked over at her husband, allowing all the uncertainty and fear she felt to show. “No,” she answered honestly. “I got out of this...business, for a reason, John. But allowing Moriarty and Moran to continue...that’s worse than anything I can imagine, especially knowing what each of them are capable of.”

John nodded in understanding, and looked ready to say something else, but their car stopped at the corner before he could.

“Right then,” he said instead, and looked out the window, then back at Mary. “See you later, yeah?”

Mary smiled faintly and leaned over to press a short kiss to John’s cheek. “Yes,” she agreed, and the two of them got out of the car, walking in separate directions and melting into the cover of London. She and John weren’t going into the warehouse, but covering Lestrade and Sherlock from the surrounding buildings; as Mary climbed to the first storey of the place she’d selected as her perch, she simply hoped that they wouldn’t be needed.

Setting up the rifle was a study in muscle memory; Mycroft had provided the guns, and Mary could admit to herself that it was an impressive model. The scope was outfitted with a heat sensor, lighting up the surrounding area in greens and yellows as she looked into it. Down the street, where Kyle, Lestrade, and Sherlock were waiting in the van, she could make out three blobs of red. More of Mycroft’s men were supposed to be around, but Mary wasn’t naive enough to think that she’d be able to see them.

“Jay, Em, you in position?” Kyle’s voice asked through the comm, sounding slightly tinny.

“All good here,” she said in reply.

“Yep,” John confirmed, and Mary watched as two figures - Sherlock and Lestrade - emerged from the van; they moved quickly across the street, then into the warehouse, and Mary lost sight of them. _Never lose sight of the target!_ her mind prompted her, but Mary hushed the years of training, reminding herself that her job wasn’t to go in and take them out. _You’re just backup here, Mary. Remember that._

Tense minutes went by with silence on the comms, something that could be taken as good or bad, depending on how you thought of it; Mary refused to think about it in _any_ way, forcing herself to stay focused on the things she knew: no one had come out of the building, but no one else had gone in. _It’s procedure to sweep through an entire building, to clear the area of any threats._

“We got her.” Lestrade’s voice was full of relief, and something in Mary relaxed in response. No other hostiles had been mentioned, which meant that Moriarty and Moran had been taken out. She moved back from the scope, ready to pack up but refraining from doing so. _You always - always - wait for the all-clear. Don’t move until you are certain the job is finished._

She opened her mouth to ask for the go-ahead, but didn’t get a chance to before Sherlock spoke into the comms.

“John, Mary, Moran’s still out there,” he said, words coming out terse with worry. “Molly doesn’t know where he is, says that he left a while ago.”

_No. Where is he? He wouldn’t just leave like that, Moriarty was clearly more than just an employer to him_ \- Mary thought frantically, but all her questions were answered at the press of cool metal against the back of her neck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got really into writing this chapter, which was nice because for parts of this piece I've felt a bit apathetic, or like my writing wasn't good enough, which led to me having writers block. But today, the words just flowed out of me, so I'm pretty happy. Thoughts on this one?


	8. Bullet

“Hello, Sebastian,” Mary said, keeping her voice void of emotion.

The muzzle of the gun pressed a bit harder against the nape of her neck. “Mary Morstan,” Moran said. “That _is_ what you go by now, isn’t it?” He spat the words out with a mixture of disgust and amusement.

“Yes,” Mary answered simply; Sherlock was still speaking rapid-fire in her earpiece, but it faded into the background as her senses went into overdrive. The sound of her blood rushing in her ears, the soft whistle of wind through the broken window, the harsh pattern of Moran’s breathing: all of them came to the forefront of her mind, and Mary felt the familiar rush of adrenaline through her veins.

Moran snorted derisively from behind her. “You always were a little weaker the rest of us, weren’t you? Why else would you give it all up for some ridiculous little doctor? Why else would you give up _Jim_? I know he propositioned you, and I know you turned him down, pulled out of the game. You could have had it _all_ ,” he emphasized with another push of the gun. “and you threw it away!”

“I found a moral compass, Sebastian. That doesn’t make me weak,” Mary replied. _Keep him talking, make him emotional. Emotions make people sloppy._

“Compasses break- or don’t you know that, Mary?” Moran taunted. “What happens when your precious husband finds out about your past? And I don’t just mean the gist of it either; have you even told him the really juicy bits? He won’t stay with you for long- he can’t. Men like him are too good for us, with their consciences and rules. Jim was so... _above_ all that.”

“Jim Moriarty was a piece of slime that hid behind other people to do his dirty work,” Mary stated.

“No he wasn’t!” Moran screamed, and _there, that’s the chance you were looking for, do it now_ because as he finally lost his temper, Sebastian moved the gun away from her skin, just slightly, but it was enough for Mary to duck her head downwards and pivot in her half-kneeling position. Her boots slid easily on the concrete floor, and her lower height lent her the advantage as she sprung up; her elbow caught Moran’s arm on the way up, forcing his arm upwards and making the gun clatter to the floor at the impact. Years of instinct and practice came back in the span of a second, and Mary planted her feet solidly in a half crouch, then slammed her other elbow as hard as she could into Moran’s solar plexus; with a coughing gasp, he jackknifed forward, just enough to put himself in range of Mary’s knee. She brought it up, and took satisfaction in the vicious crack that followed.

Moran cursed, his words sounding mangled from his broken nose, but Mary didn’t stop there. _Finish the job; never let a potential breach_ _go_ _unattended_ , her mind prompted her. _If you lose this chance, you will regret it for the rest of your life_. With a low growl, Mary shoved Moran back, forcing him to fall backwards until he slammed into the floor, head smacking onto the hard surface. While he was still stunned, Mary swooped down and grabbed Moran’s gun.

“I will never regret my decision,” she said fiercely, hands steady as she sighted the gun on Moran’s forehead. “I wasn’t the best of humanity, by any means, but I left that behind me. I found a man who loved me, even after I nearly destroyed everything we had together, who took the chance to try and understand me in my entirety. John is the best thing that ever happened to me, and I will never go back on that choice. But I’m afraid you,” she cocked the trigger, “made the wrong one, Sebastian- you chose a man that never saw you as more than a hired gun, and now he’s dead.” Moran was staring up at her, defiant and lost at the same time as Mary took a short breath. “Maybe you’ll see him in hell,” she whispered, and pulled the trigger.

* * *

 

“John, Mary, Moran’s still out there. Molly doesn’t know where he is, says that he left a while ago,” Sherlock said urgently into his comm. “It’s likely that Moran knows that we’re here, and that Moriarty is dead- he’ll come after one of you, I don’t know which one, not without further data. You both have to look out for him.” Sherlock made eye contact with Greg, waved one of his hands in a sharp movement that spoke volumes to how stressed he was.

 _Get her out_ , Sherlock mouthed. Lestrade nodded shortly in reply and turned to Molly.

“We’ve got to get out of here,” he said softly. “Think you can stand?”

“Yes,” Molly said decisively. “I can do anything, if it gets me out of here.”

Greg smiled a bit at that. “That’s my girl,” he said encouragingly, and held out a hand; Molly grabbed onto it with a surprisingly strong grip that didn’t falter, even as Molly stood and inhaled sharply at the pain.

Sherlock ushered them from the room and covered their path down the stairs, gaze darting all around them in a vigilant check for Moran. “John,” he said lowly as they reached the ground floor. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, Sherlock,” John replied, “I’m fine. Mary?”

Greg held his breath waiting for Mary’s answer, but was only greeted with the slight static that traveled between the comm system.

“Mary?” John asked again, but this time there was fear in the name.

“Dammit,” Sherlock growled, and ushered Lestrade and Molly forward faster. “John, you know where she was set up- go find her. Now.”

“On it,” John said tersely, and then Greg and Molly were crossing the threshold of the door they’d entered through, Sherlock just a step behind him.

“See the van over there,” Lestrade whispered. “That’s us.”

“We need to get over there as quickly as possible. Mary and Moran will be in her position, which means that we’ll be sitting ducks if Moran decides to go after us,” Sherlock said, coming up to stand on Molly’s other side. “We’ll have to run.”

Molly nodded resolutely. “I can do it,” she said firmly.

“One. Two. Three,” Sherlock breathed, and then Greg was running across the street, asphalt hard under his feet, his breaths raspy in his ears and the cold air smacking him in the face. _Make it across make it across make it across_ his mind demanded relentlessly, until they were coming up on the van; the door opened just as they reached it, and Lestrade half-lifted Molly as she ran into the back, he and Sherlock clattering in behind her.

“John,” Sherlock panted. “John, give me an update.”

“We’re fine Sherlock,” Mary said calmly. “Both of us are. Moran is dead. We’ll be down to the van in a moment.”

 _Oh thank God_. Greg thunked his head back against the wall of the van, breathing heavily and feeling so incredibly alive. Everyone was safe, and both of the bastards who had done this to Molly were dead. Greg rolled his head to the side a bit, just enough to catch Sherlock’s eye and grin shakily. _We did it._

 _Yes_ , Sherlock agreed with a small upward tilt of his mouth. _We did_.

* * *

 

Mary and John stood on opposite sides of the room, unable to look away from each other. The gun was still in Mary’s hand, metal slightly warm to the touch, and John’s chest was heaving, hair tousled from the wind that had blown through it as he ran.

Mary’s heart flooded with fear- _What if Sebastian was right? What if he can’t deal with this, can’t deal with me? God knows I’ve tried to fix us but what if it becomes too much for him to handle?_ “John,” she said quietly. “Please, I-”

“Mary,” John interrupted. “Jesus, Mary,” he repeated, and before Mary could blink John was standing in front of her; the gun was pulled out of her gun and gently set on the floor, before John stood up again and looked her in the eye. One hand came up to her face, and Mary realised- a bit dazedly - that John was wiping away tears.

“John,” she said again, but this time it was more than a plea; it was _I love you_ and _please don’t leave me_ and _God I wish that I could make my past go away_.

“Shh,” John said, and pulled her close until they were pressed together from chest to thigh. “It’s okay,” he whispered, stroking her hair. “You’re okay.”

Mary breathed in deep, taking comfort in the familiarity of John’s scent - their laundry detergent, his cologne and shampoo, and just a hint of sweat - and the warmth of his body against hers.

“John. John, give me an update.”

Mary pulled her head up. ““We’re fine Sherlock,” she said, looking at John. “Both of us are. Moran is dead. We’ll be down to the van in a moment.”

John smiled at her and pressed a kiss to her lips, then took her hand and tugged slightly. “Shall we?”

“Yes,” Mary said, and together they walked out of the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I truly did enjoy writing this chapter. Thoughts?  
> *edit:* Just so y'all know, I'm not certain I'll be able to update tomorrow (Tuesday). I've got a recital I have to attend, and I won't have as much time to write as a result. I'll definitely be able to have a chapter up on Wednesday though :)


	9. Fatigue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! My recital ended earlier than expected, so I had time to write up a chapter after all :)

When the doctor came out from Molly’s room, Lestrade jumped up from his chair, steps wobbling slightly as he walked over to her. Sherlock watched with a calculated eye from his own dreadfully uncomfortable waiting room chair, then slowly pulled himself out of his slouch to come and stand beside Lestrade.

“She’ll be alright,” the doctor said, consulting her chart - Doctor Reynolds, her name tag read; what it didn’t say was that she was a recently divorced woman who was in a bitter custody battle with her ex and had recently bought an orange tabby cat to keep her company, but that didn’t mean Sherlock didn’t know it. “The cuts haven’t gotten infected, and we were able to stitch up some of the deeper ones. She was dehydrated, so we’ve got her hooked up to an IV. Other than that though…” she trailed off and shrugged. “She’s fine, physically. The real recovery will come from counseling, of course.”

Lestrade sighed in relief. “Thank God,” he whispered. “Can I see her?”

Doctor Reynolds looked hesitant for a moment. “Well…”

“No,” Sherlock said decisively, and latched onto Lestrade’s hand. “You need to go home.”

“Sherlock,” he protested. “I have to be there for her when she wakes up, what if she’s scared, or-”

Sherlock huffed in frustration. “Lestrade. You are swaying where you stand. You have not had anything more substantial than a cup of coffee - which you then violently expelled from your stomach, if I may remind you - in the last day, and your body protested by sending signals of hunger and thirst, which you’ve ignored in favour of trying to track down Molly. An admirable choice, but as a result, your body now has nothing to gain energy from. You need something to eat and to get some sleep, two facts I’m sure that Doctor Reynolds will agree with.” Sherlock looked over at the doctor, one eyebrow raised.

She nodded. “It’s true, Inspector. You look over-stressed and fatigued, and my recommended course of action would be to get a hot meal in you and a good solid eight hours of sleep.”

“And besides,” Sherlock jumped in, gesturing to Molly’s room. “Your tech man - Kyle, was it? - just went into Molly’s room, and he clearly intends to stay there, probably so that he can be there when she wakes and then start to form a relationship with her, one that he no doubt hopes will progress into a romantic attachment.”

Lestrade blinked at him, face blank, then ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah,” he agreed slowly around a yawn. “Yeah, okay. You win, you smartarse.”

“Good,” Sherlock replied, and with a tip of his head at the doctor, tugged Lestrade down the hallway and through the hospital.

“What about Mary and John?” Lestrade asked after a moment, clearly realising that the couple weren’t with them anymore.

“They went back to their flat, Lestrade. As far as any leftover evidence, Mycroft has informed me that it was ‘taken care of’, so you needn’t worry about that.”

“What about,” Lestrade said, then had to stop because of another yawn. He shook his head slightly (dizzy, Sherlock decided), and Sherlock tightened his hold on Lestrade’s hand. “What about York? He is m’boss, after all.”

They were nearing the front entrance of the hospital now, and as the doors opened, Sherlock began scanning the streets for an available cab. “I’m fairly certain the Chief Superintendent will not begrudge you a day off after your harrowing ordeal.” _Ah, there’s one._ Sherlock flung an arm up into the air, pleased when the cab pulled to a stop. “Now, get in the cab.”

Lestrade slid into the cab, but narrowed a look at him as he did so, tired but still sharp. “What did you say to my boss, Sherlock?”

Sherlock huffed and pulled Lestrade over to his side of the seat, reclaiming Lestrade’s hand. “Nothing. At least, not me personally. I told you, Mycroft took care of it all. You’ve got the next two days off from the Yard.”

Lestrade’s laugh didn’t make any sound, but Sherlock could still feel the shake of Lestrade’s shoulder against his. “Nutter,” he said affectionately, and laid his head on Sherlock’s shoulder, letting his eyes slip closed.

* * *

 

“Lestrade.”

“Hmm?”

“ _Lestrade_.”

Lestrade made another noncommittal sound and pressed closer to Sherlock, oblivious of the fact that the cab had stopped in front of Lestrade’s flat. Sherlock rolled his eyes in fond exasperation, and reached out to gently shake Lestrade’s shoulder; at the touch, Lestrade jerked his head up, blearily looking around.

“What? Yeah, yeah, ‘m ready,” he slurred.

“We’re at your flat,” Sherlock said slowly, and took ahold of Lestrade’s arm to help him balance as they got out of the cab. When Lestrade’s feet hit the ground, his legs nearly gave out from under him, and Sherlock just managed to stop the other man from falling. One handed, Sherlock fished his wallet from his coat pocket and flipped it open, maneuvering a twenty pound note out and held it out to the cabbie.

“Keep the change,” he said crisply, then turned his mind to the task of getting Lestrade into his flat. The man was still half-asleep, head lolling to the side as he stumbled alongside Sherlock; when they finally got to the front door, Sherlock propped Lestrade up against the wall beside it before digging into Lestrade’s pockets, searching for the keys; when he felt the cool metal against his fingertips, a soft sound of triumph left his lips and Sherlock pulled them out, sliding the key into the lock and trying to ignore the way his own fingers shook slightly from exhaustion.

“C’mon,” Sherlock said, and tugged Lestrade off of the wall.

“Mm,” Lestrade agreed sleepily. “Home.”

“Astute observation, Lestrade,” Sherlock replied. “Now, no, don’t go fumbling off. You need to take your shoes off.”

Lestrade pointed a finger at him. “Yes,” he mumbled. “Shoes, right. Let me just…” he trailed off and braced himself against the couch as he leaned over to pull off his shoes. “Now, bed,” he said when he was done, and then it was Lestrade who was taking Sherlock’s hand and leading them down the hall, somehow managing not to slam into any furniture in the dark flat.

The bedroom was quiet as they peeled off the rest of their clothes until they were both only clad in pants, Lestrade too tired to make conversation, and Sherlock too busy making sure Lestrade didn’t topple over. Finally, they both slid under the covers, automatically gravitating toward each other’s warmth until they slotted together like puzzle pieces. Lestrade’s head was pressed against Sherlock’s collarbone, and Sherlock bent his neck so that he could press a kiss to Lestrade’s forehead.

“Thank you,” Lestrade murmured, and Sherlock tightened his hold in response.

“Of course.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! Relationship-y things! (Hopefully I did okay.)


	10. Mattress

When Greg woke up, the first thing he noticed was how wonderfully _warm_ he was. The sensation was all around him, seeping through his skin and dispelling the chill that had occupied his bones the past few days. Purposefully keeping his eyes closed, Greg chose to hang out to the feeling while it lasted, curling closer to Sherlock and soaking up the sense of peace. The sun had come up, bathing his room in a light that was pale orange behind his eyelids, and Greg buried his face in the space between Sherlock’s neck and the pillow, sighing happily.

“Your nose is cold,” Sherlock muttered, the complaint muffled.

“Shut it,” Greg mumbled. “I’m sleeping.”

“You’re clearly awake,” Sherlock pointed out.

“Not the point.”

Sherlock huffed in annoyance, and Greg couldn’t keep a smile from spilling over his face; it only grew wider as Sherlock made another miffed sound after a failed attempt to pull away.

“Let me go,” he insisted.

“Nu-uh,” Greg answered, tightening his hold. “You’re warm. And I’m comfortable.”

Sherlock tried to get out of the bed again, and in a fit of mischievousness, Greg lightly ran his fingers up and down Sherlock’s sides; the other man flinched slightly at the contact, and Lestrade looked at him, amused.

“Ticklish, huh?” he grinned, and rolled them over so that Sherlock was pinned underneath his body before reaching out to tickle Sherlock in earnest. Sherlock jumped, trying to squirm away from where Greg’s fingers were dancing across his ribcage, and started to shake with laughter.

“Lestrade,” he gasped, and Greg chuckled a bit before stopping, then flopping on top of Sherlock to stop him from leaving.

“Stay here,” he requested, nose pressed into Sherlock’s chest. “I feel like we haven’t done this in forever.”

“It’s only been a few days, Lestrade,” Sherlock replied, but the fight left his body as he sank into the mattress, letting Greg relax more fully on him.

“An emotionally-nerve wracking few days,” Greg reminded him, and settled in, closing his eyes. “Talk to me,” he requested softly.

“About what?” Sherlock asked, just as quiet.

Greg shrugged half-heartedly. “Anything. Just want to hear you talk. Love it when you do that.”

Sherlock didn’t reply for a moment, then started to speak again, words rumbling in his chest under Greg’s ear. “Have I ever told you about my first case?”

Lestrade shook his head. “No,” he murmured.

“It was in uni,” Sherlock began, and Greg let Sherlock’s story wash over him, a soothing sound that lulled him into a doze as he kept one ear tuned to the descriptions of how Sherlock had met Victor Trevor, and the large, Victorian-style estate he lived on, the deductions that Sherlock had made about Trevor’s father.

“It was that encounter that made me consider detective work with any real interest,” Sherlock said. “I’d thought about it in the past, but when I went to uni I was studying chemistry; I still continued it, but I started solving little cases, whatever ones came my way that weren’t entirely dull. Made quite a reputation for myself.”

Greg hummed. “Bet you were real popular.”

“Not really, no. The idiots would come to me, asking about whether or not their significant other was cheating on them, or whatever petty worry they had, and then get upset by my answer. It was usually yes. I was not...I didn’t have many friends.”

“Damn shame,” Greg mumbled. “You’re fantastic. Bit of a git sometimes, but it just makes me love you more. Especially when you get all sulky, flouncing about in your dressing gown. Have to keep from laughing at you when you do that.”

Sherlock had gone stiff underneath him, and Greg raised his head just enough to look at him with concern. “What?”

“Nothing,” Sherlock said, clearing his throat, but his eyes were wide and he still hadn’t relaxed again; worry rose up in Greg’s stomach. _What did I say?_ He mentally ran back over his words, and winced when he realised what it was Sherlock had reacted to.

“Oh,” Greg said, and started to pull away. _Stupid. Shouldn’t have said the “L” word- who knows what Sherlock feels for you but it obviously isn’t that_. “Sorry, I didn’t…” he trailed off, and pulled himself off of Sherlock, fully prepared to beat a hasty retreat.

“It’s fine,” Sherlock said stiffly, sitting up too. “A slip of the tongue; perfectly understandable.”

“What?” Greg felt his brow furrow, and looked over at Sherlock. “It wasn’t a slip of the tongue, Sherlock.”

Sherlock stared at him blankly. “Of course it was,” he replied. “You couldn’t really mean it, and you grew uncomfortable after realising what you said, obviously regretting it.”

“I only regretted it because I thought you were unsettled by it. I mean, if you don’t feel the same, that’s fine, really- I like what we have, and I don’t want you to feel pressured to say it back.” Greg said, and swallowed roughly. “If you...I know I’m not the most handsome or interesting man out there, and I understand I’m more into...whatever this is, then you.”

“You’re an idiot,” Sherlock said bluntly.

“Yeah, well,” Greg said, trying to smile past the sadness that went through him at the words. “I’m sure-” he began to say, but before he could get the words out, Sherlock’s lips were pressing insistently against his. Bewildered, Greg kissed back tentatively, but Sherlock demanded more until Greg opened his mouth and let Sherlock in; Sherlock pulled Lestrade closer, throwing him off balance, and Greg held an arm out to brace himself as they continued to snog breathlessly. Finally, Greg had to pull back, sucking in air raggedly and staring at Sherlock.

“Of course I feel the same,” Sherlock said passionately. “You’re strong, and kind, and sometimes I look at you and wonder how it is you’ve managed to stick around this long. I worry constantly, about all the things that could happen to you, or to me, and I think about losing you and it terrifies me.” Sherlock’s eyes locked onto Greg’s, emphasising his point by catching Greg’s hand and twining their fingers together in a strong grasp. “How on earth could you ever think any different?”

“I don’t-” Greg tried to speak past the lump that had suddenly appeared in his throat. “I don’t know,” he admitted on a whisper, “I...I just never thought….”

The smallest of smiles pulled up Sherlock’s lips. “That’s always been your problem,” he said, but his voice was husky too, and Greg placed a peck on Sherlock’s forehead, overwhelmed by the love and absolute _adoration_ he felt for this man that was rushing through his chest. He let himself be pulled back into bed by Sherlock, who rearranged them under the covers until they were entangled together in a mess of limbs and warm breath ghosting over skin.

“Thought you didn’t want to have a lie in,” Greg whispered.

“Changed my mind,” Sherlock replied, lips brushing against Lestrade’s shoulder. “Now hush.”

“Tell me another story,” Greg entreated.

“I don’t know if this ever went on John’s blog or not, but it happened about a week after he moved in. A lady came to see us, concerned about whether or not her stepfather was going to kill her…”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! So...I think this is going to be the end of this one. I didn't really set out with a specific chapter limit for this piece, and this feels like a good place to stop. As far as the series goes, I may add some plot bunnies if something comes to mind (maybe something about Molly and Kyle, or some more sherstrade moments), but for the most part I'm satisfied with how this all turned out. (And hopefully, you are too!) A _huge_ thank you to Azriel_Lolita, who has stuck with me from pretty much the beginning of "If You Press Me" (you're freaking awesome).  
>  If you're wondering, I went through a ton of pages on the kink meme over the past few weeks, so I'll probably be filling some prompts from there soon :)  
> Until next time,  
> biswholocked


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